Reckoning (10 page)

Strangely, Kertzman was reminded of three army specialists he had seen in 1967 when he was stationed in Saigon. It was some mysterious kind of reconnaissance group that had come out of the bush after three months of in-country fighting. He remembered how they had walked past him and how one had mechanically turned his head, meeting Kertzman's astonished gaze.

Kertzman had never forgotten what he had felt in that moment, never thought he would feel it again; it was the chilling gaze of Death walking. Hungry. Prepared. Still in the jungle on city streets.

"And why is he a primary suspect?"
Kertzman rumbled. "What makes you think this guy is in on any of this?"

Admiral Talbot didn't falter. "Upon your hypothesis during the committee hearing, and after Mr. Radford's subsequent report, the NSA initiated a file search of personnel who met a criteria of cross-training in special warfare." He gestured to the file Kertzman held. "This man, Staff Sergeant Jonathan M
ichael Gage, formerly of the United States Army, is one of our most, ah, highly skilled operatives in that regard. He was a former member of Delta Force, has all of the elite commando training. After being discharged from Delta he became part of a subunit out of Central Intelligence Covert Operations where he acquired even more specialized training in counterinsurgency, particularly in the area of preemptive sanctions against terrorists. Most importantly, he is suspected of treason."

Kertzman raised eyes at that.

"Gage vanished in August of 1990," added the Admiral in a serious tone. "Vanished under peculiar circumstances and without a trace during a regrettable and highly classified CIA covert operation in the Negeb Desert. Israel. The bodies of ten other team members who were with him were ultimately recovered and identified. But Gage's body was never found. It is suspected, but not confirmed, that he betrayed his country and possibly even set up his own team to die. We have received scattered but unconfirmed reports over the last three years that he may still be active in the intelligence community. So, we do have sufficient cause to suspect that he may be alive and may also be working somehow with other members of our military to influence the high ground of this government."

The Admiral seemed impressed by his own speech.

Kertzman was impassive. Figuring it for himself.

"Mr. Carthwright," the Admiral continued, "is special
assistant to the NSA's Director of Operations. However, because he is an ex-Justice Department prosecutor he is temporarily on leave from the Agency and has reassumed his authority to oversee an investigation on American soil, in accordance with standard legal procedure and policy." He hesitated, searching. "Now, if this man, Jonathan Gage, and his cohorts are found, the Attorney General will issue federal warrants of arrest. Indictments will be sought, court martials performed with strictest adherence to policy against all enlisted personnel. But since Gage is now a civilian we will prosecute him on a civilian level. Then we will institute full procedures for rectifying any misconduct or misuse of military personnel or equipment as well as compensation to victims as it is allowed by civil law."

Kertzman tried to reason the situation through more
completely. "And why is Gage, if it is Gage, doin' all this?" he asked abruptly. "What are these people workin' to get?"

Talbot shook his head. "We do not know. That is one cause for the investigation."

Kertzman pondered that.

"To summarize, Nathaniel," the Admiral continued, "we want you to discover if this man is somehow involved in this plot. And if he is, we want you to apprehend him. Bring him to justice. Bring an ending to this network of traitors."

He ominously accented "traitors," and Kertzman was suddenly aware of what it was like to command true power. He felt strangely uncomfortable, out of place.

"Why me?" he asked, acutely searching the lean face, glancing towards Carthwright. "There are probably a lot of men who are more qualified.
And certainly easier to work with." He waited on that, then, "I don't see why you would pick my name out of the hat."

Talbot almost laughed, then leaned forward, clasping his hands, as if he were momentarily impressed with his own thoughts before focusing on Kertzman again. "Because I've watched you and studied you. You are the most hated and feared man in the
Pentagon. Your name can darken any room in this building, which is the largest building in the world. Few men can enjoy such a boast. There are others, yes, but not many who are as determined, or as obstinate. You're only fifty-four. That's old enough to know how to do this discreetly, but not so old that it's too tough an assignment physically. You're only four years out of the Bureau, so you can resume your FBI authority without having to go back through Quantico for federal recertification. You're smarter than the rest, and you possess something that very few of the other investigators have."

Kertzman couldn't help himself. "And what's that?"

"You're a natural hunter, Nathaniel! You've had combat experience in Asia. Then you spent years as a police officer and twenty years with the FBI before you finally came to the Pentagon. You know how to deal with men like this. You know how to find clues, investigate, track ghosts in a fog." The Admiral waited for the soft sell to sink in. "And your integrity is completely unquestioned. There will always be disputing interests, but for the most part your reports are unchallenged for their honesty, accuracy, and investigative thoroughness. Believe me, my friend, you're the best man for the job."

Carthwright spoke up again:
"And we know that you can get the job done, Mr. Kertzman."

Kertzman turned, purposely slow, to gaze into the confident face.

"How do you know that?"

"Because you'll have a trump card up your sleeve
."

Kertzman blinked at the allusion of speech. It seemed slightly incongruous coming from someone so stately as Carthwright. Kertzman wondered if Carthwright was attempting to un-refine his language in order to meet what he presumed would register most effectively in Kertzman's un-refined intellect. The thought annoyed Kertzman, but his face revealed nothing as he stared at the NSA man.

Carthwright calmly clasped his hands together.

"You will be working with a man who trained Gage. A man who knew
him in Central Intelligence. His name is Robert Milburn, and he's been through every course, every school that Gage ever graduated from. He knows the specifics of every battle Gage ever fought. With any luck, Milburn might even be able to second-guess him. And Radford will also be working with you. He can get you anything you need. With Milburn and Radford working under you, you should have a good chance of success."

Kertzman grunted, noncommitant.

"Gage must be stopped, Mr. Kertzman," Carthwright continued. "That is absolutely essential. But, of course, you must stay within the law. According to domestic policy you yourself are not authorized to initiate any tactical situations. If you see a combat situation developing, you'll be required to notify appropriate special agencies. You know the procedure. But," he raised his hands vaguely with the words, "whatever occurs, we trust that you will handle the situation discreetly. You have our full support. This entire meeting has been taped and documented. You can call the Office of Security to confirm. We are not trying to pull something over on you, Mr. Kertzman. This is a legitimate investigation, and we would like for you to do the fieldwork. Find this rogue operative, bring him to justice so that he can be prosecuted."

Kertzman studied Carthwright's even gaze, saw the petition to join in the crusade. He searched the face, but there was nothing else to find. "Who's the top man in this?"

"Me," Carthwright answered. "There is no other chain of command, above or below. If necessary, you'll use the Digital Information Relay Center in the basement for communications. Then, neither the CIA, the NSA, or the FBI can monitor your messages. Everything is arranged to maintain strictest secrecy." He seemed to ponder the thought. "Needless to say, it is absolutely essential that we keep all American intelligence networks out of this investigation."

Kertzman waited, vaguely annoyed. Then he turned toward the window, staring into the grayness with a concentrated
intensity.

Outside, a gathering wind tore dead leaves from trees, and his thoughts were just as cold, chaotic, and he felt a disturbing
sensation. It was as if a faint track, obvious and revealing, were missing; some half-glimpsed trace in the dust that he couldn't quite read. Kertzman concentrated, trying to find, to discern, the faint sign. He knew it was there, felt it was there, but couldn't see it.

Everything was verifiable.

Call the Office of Security. Confirm it.

But there was something else. He could sense it, smell it.
Hiding in plain sight. The thought was maddening.

Beyond the glass a silent wind bent the trees, sending leaves into clouds and a darkening sky. Kertzman watched, distantly thoughtful.

A storm was coming.

Kertzman saw the thunderclouds in the grayness, a cold
winter long overdue. And it came to him, a bad feeling, a real bad feeling. He hesitated, remembering that he was six months out. And he knew he could walk away from it, let them hunt it down themselves with lawyers and depositions and computers, leaving him to walk into an easy retirement.

Or he could walk into it, hunt a cold trail.

A man's got to live with himself.

Kertzman felt a new awareness when he spoke. The Admiral seemed a much less imposing figure when he looked at him again.

"Alright, Admiral Talbot," he said quietly. "I'll try and find out what's going on. But I want full documentation on everything I do. 'Cause if I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna do it right. I'll follow this thing wherever it leads, no matter where it leads. Right up to the Pentagon, if I have to. Right up to the Joint Chiefs." He nodded curtly. "Right up to you."

Admiral Talbot's lean hand settled on Kertzman's shoulder.

"I knew we could count on you, Nathaniel."

* * *

TWELVE

Testing the pain that lanced his forearm where he'd been shot, Gage clenched his fist, found strength. After two weeks, the pain was finally fading, the wound almost healed.

Good enough.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cedar, where he rested in the glowing, early morning. He felt the cool breeze, appreciating the solitude. A thought rose up, but he turned his mind from it. Because he knew he couldn't stay.

Not now.

Simon was dead, and he was thrown back, hard, into his old world. And he sensed that it would get a lot worse before it ended. Tired, he released a focused breath and bowed his head, trying to find balance. He had never wanted to return to that life.

Not ever.

He scowled and felt the substance of what he was, now. Felt it, solid and filling. It was strength to him. He wondered if he would be able to keep it.

Soft sounds.

Gage half-turned his head, listened without opening his eyes. Caught the faint scent in the breeze.

Sarah.

He knew she was there, followed her quiet footsteps but waited to open his eyes. When he finally looked up she was beside him. Graceful and easy and natural in blue jeans, a denim shirt, and brown boots with her hair dark and thick, framing her oval face. But it was the smile, always the smile that reached him first; comfortable and understanding.

"You want to be alone?" she asked quietly.

He knew that if he said yes, the smile wouldn't fade. She didn't play games, understood so much that he could not tell her.

"No."

"Good," she said and settled onto the grass beside him. And didn't say anything more.

It was one of the things he enjoyed most about Sarah. She didn't have to say anything, be anything. She could always find the right place, an almost ethereal balance between words and silence. He had come to regard her calm composure with profound respect.

A wintry sun rose slowly, casting a brighter glare over the once-golden glade. Gage felt the wind increase in strength and by reflex his mind switched to an analysis of sniper fire, to angles and elevation, power and bullet weight and maximum impact and a thousand thoughts that shattered peace of mind. Before he could stop himself he had shook his head, muttering something indiscernible, trying to remain in the moment.

Sarah turned her head at the sound, her narrow and careful green eyes regarding him with a measured look. But she said nothing, and after a moment resumed watching the wind gently tugging leaves.

"It's a nice place to stay, don't you think?" she said.

"Yeah," Gage answered. "A nice place."

"It reminds me of a place I grew up in, way out in the Northwest," she added carefully. "We had a little glade, or clearing, like this. I liked it."

Gage listened, smiling faintly, watching her eyes as she talked. They were the only eyes he had never tried to read anything behind.

"Father was back teaching again in Seattle," she continued. "I was in my third year of critical care nursing, but I'd decided to drop out. It wasn't how I wanted to spend my life. So I had a lot of free time. I'd go into this field every day, take some books, study. I enjoyed reading outside. It always seemed more ... alive to me. Sometimes I miss it. Sometimes I miss a lot of things that were simple." She paused. "Is this where you came after you healed up in New York? After we smuggled you into the country from Israel?"

Gage caught the slight hesitation in her voice at the final question, and he had already nodded, more than willing to answer, grateful she had asked.

"Yes. I set this place up a long time ago as a safe house, just in case I ever needed it. Turns out I did. In the end it was the only place that was truly safe for me or anyone else. That's why I came back."

She nodded slightly and turned away, gazing at the two heavily wooded slopes that flanked the cabin. The enclosing hillsides were high, steep and overgrown with thick brush and an almost
impenetrable stand of trees that made the forest seem dark even in the day. Only the cabin was clearly visible, standing alone in the small clearing that was utterly barren of thorns and brush, resting solidly between the slopes. It was a strangely level arena of shattered stone, crushed into the mountain long ago with glacial strength and which now claimed its own measure of peaceful sovereignty from a brutal and surrounding world.

"This place really is beautiful, in a way," she said. "It's hard, and it's cold, sometimes." She looked at him. "But it's peaceful. And honest."

"Yes," he nodded, holding her gaze. "It is."

A brighter smile, and she said, "And what do you do now? With your time, I mean. Do you just hang around here?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. Pretty much. I stay here. I built the cabin myself. Took me about a year. Lived in a tent while I worked. But there's still some finishing work that needs to be done. I've kind of gotten out of it lately, though. Haven't driven a nail in a while. Nowadays I read a lot, I go into town for supplies." He laughed. "I know it sounds boring but it's a good life. Sometimes I've gone into the city to visit Simon. Not often, but a couple of times."

"He really loved you."

"I know."

Sarah tossed a lock of hair back from her forehead. "I think he thought of you as the son he never had, as the saying goes. After he found you in the desert, he felt that it was all ordained."

Silence joined them for a time, and she spoke again. "Is your arm alright?"

Stretching his right arm, Gage made a fist, testing. "Yeah. I think it's alright. I'm ready to go back into the city. Maybe find some answers. I'll try and get Simon's letter from the church, then we can find the next step in all of this."

"I think my father has some answers," she said. "So do I, I guess. At least a few. And Barto."

Gage nodded. "We're gonna talk tonight. We'll cover some more ground. I already know a few things. I know this manuscript is valuable to these people. Valuable enough for them to kill for. But I don't know what's in it."

"Father knows what's in it."

"I know. But I think we'll all know a lot more when I get Simon's letter from the church."

Her voice was low. "Will it be dangerous? To get the letter, I mean? Do you think they'll be expecting you?"

"Probably." He felt instant regret for saying it, but he knew he couldn't keep any secrets from her. Not really. Not about anything that mattered. She was too sharp, her intuition too keen, too discerning. He knew that there was nothing he could say that she could not sound out almost instantly by her uncanny ability to somehow always feel the truth in him.

Silent, he waited, looking away.

“
Tm sorry for what you had to do," she said finally. "I know it was hard for you. I know you don't want to return to that life. We never talked about it, really, you and I. You never said you didn't want to go back to being a soldier. But I could tell."

He looked down, sniffed indifferently. His hands were clasped. "Yeah. It's hard, I guess. But it was always hard. I'd just forgotten, is all."

"Are you alright? I'm not a psychiatrist or anything, but I know that sort of thing can have a hard impact on a person's state of mind."

He shrugged, frowning. "I try not to think about it. I... did what I had to do. If I could have found another way, I would have gone with it. But everything happened so fast. It was just split-second decisions, training. There was just no..." His voice trailed off.

Motionless, Sarah waited, a calming and perceptive gleam in her green eyes.

"Thank you for saving my life," she said finally.

Casually she brought her knees up, laying her forearms across them, staring out over the forest, the glade. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

"It's difficult," she said, "finding right and wrong in all this."

Releasing a hard breath, Gage shifted. "There was only one right and wrong to it, really. And that was the decision to get involved in the first place. From then on there was just surviving. Just a dangerous game. Because, really, none of this is different from police work or standing on a wall in the military. I'm putting myself between you and some very bad people." He shook his head, looking away. "I'm rusty, is all. I'm having a hard time getting back into the mindset. It's almost got me killed already. I can't seem to get back into it. My heart isn't in it."

"Was it easier when you were a soldier?"

He shook his head. "It was never easy. But I had a different attitude then. I was a lot colder. More efficient. I didn't make mistakes like I've made so far. Back then, when I was in combat, I didn't look at people like they were people."

She blinked. "What were they?"

"Targets," he said simply, turning to her. "Back then, like I said, I was efficient. Surgical. I didn't hesitate or let men live when I knew that tomorrow I might walk into a rifle sight and they would be behind it. It was kill or be killed. Everybody on all sides understood it. That's just how it worked in the field. If you lost in the situation, you died. No questions. But now I'm hesitating. I'm letting people walk away, or trying to give them a chance to back down." His jaw tightened, his face harder. "I need to get the scent back in all of this or I'm going to make another mistake, get myself killed. And if I'm dead I'm no good to anybody. I've got to stop thinking so much and just do the job."

She watched him, unblinking. "Not everyone could do that kind of thing."

"No," he said somberly, "not everyone could. Or should. But I'm different. I'm trained to operate like that. I'm just having a hard time getting it back together. I've got to get my head straight and put all of that right and wrong stuff in its place. I mean, there's always going to be right and wrong. But not in combat. In combat there's just good moves and bad moves. Good moves kill the enemy. Bad moves get me killed."

Leaning forward, she touched his arm with her hand, eyes narrow. She didn't seem shaken by his words.

"I know it's hard for you because you're not what you were, Gage."

"No," he said. "I'm not what I was. I don't take orders anymore. Not from no man. Now I only fight for what I think is right."

* * *

A sea breeze broke over the white, walled balcony of the granite bastille that rose like a fortress from the thundering cliff, far above the sandy air, torn and slashed with foam from the crashing tide.

The conquering darkness of dusk was settling against the ocean-stained walls of the majestic edifice that dominated the Italian coast with an authority that was both sentient and commanding; an oppressive force that stood unchallenged on ancient stones.

Cloaked in an elegant but simply designed purple robe, the man, crowned by a mane of shoulder-length white hair, stood on the mist-torn balcony of the structure, staring into the darkening sea. The pale sun's dying glow failed to penetrate the ocean's expanse, but danced faintly in flaming waves. And yet, still, he watched, as if reading something beyond the somber hue.

For a long time he stood, imperious and alone, until a thin, formally attired man approached him.

"All is in order, sir."

Silent, the white-haired man turned at the words, revealing a face of lean aristocratic beaut y, concentrated and calm, placid to its depths, evenly tanned and aged far less than his fifth decade. The blue eyes seemed to glint deeply with immeasurable intelligence and benevolence, even challenging the obvious measure of
experienced strength that graced his muscular form with masculine poise.

Without words he nodded politely and walked across the balcony into the structure. Then, once inside the palatial fortress, he moved to a glistening black obsidian table, lightly placing a hand on the open folder, ignoring those who waited.

In the dusk, standing alone at the end of the ageless volcanic slab, the white-haired man was outlined against the sun. In the solemnity of the moment, cloaked in the purple glow of his Romeo Giglia waist-length robe, its silver clasps shining in the faint light, he seemed regal. His cotton twill shirt was open at the collar, and his heavy-soled laceless boots blended perfectly but casually against his black cotton pants.

Neither of the other two men in the room moved or spoke while he gazed upon the file. After a moment the man's Atlantean face was raised, patiently searching the eyes of the others present at the table. His gaze settled upon a priest.

"And shall you illuminate this for me, old friend?" he asked quietly in a pacific, calming voice of solitude. "Will you be the one to unravel this mystery?"

Father Stanford Aquanine D'Oncetta only shook his head, respectful, but demurring. The white-haired man nodded, equally respectful, but commanding, and gracefully turned his attention away.

A tall man, the only other occupant in the room, stepped for-ward. "We have encountered grave problems, Augustus," he said with a faint British accent.

Augustus smiled at the remark. "It does not require sensitive ears to hear thunder, Charles." He laughed lightly. "But there is no need for fear. Our forces are invisible, and our defenses complex. We are not vulnerable to attack."

Charles Stern removed his tweed jacket and laid it across a black, lacquered rattan chair. "The situation is slightly more complicated than that, Augustus. You know about this man, Gage. He will be dealt with shortly. But there is something else." He hesitated. "We still do not know where the priest hid the manuscript. And now, unfortunately, Santacroce is dead."